Growing up
by Calcidoine
Summary: Elinor is a spoiled child. But Skyrim soon humbles her. As trials and hardships pile up, she will have to revise her attitude and battle to regain her freedom. OC is not the dragonborn.
1. The Fall - prologue

**DISCLAIMER**

Skyrim belongs to Besthesda.

I first wrote this story in french (being from France...) but decided to translate it because TES is not a very popular game in my country.

Also, I'd like to say that English feels a bit akward to me, so please, be merciful !

Still, I hope you'll enjoy it.

* * *

.

Elinor woke up with a start. She felt cold, bare ground under her back. A damp unhealthy atmosphere surrounded her.

Her eyes took several minutes to acclimate. When they did, she realized she was lying in a grotto with an orc squatting next to her. The green mer was staring at her, a vicious smile upon his ugly face.

"Ah, fresh meat" he said "so sweet, so tender."

Elinor couldn't help but shrink. Who was this person? What was she doing here, in such a filthy place?

Her distress made the other grin.

"Afraid, are we? Well, you should be."

Since she would not speak, he went on.

"If you want to survive, do as you're told, and everything should be fine. Don't, and the guards will have to bury your dead body."

She nodded in assent. He gave her a satisfied look.

"Now, on your feet. Follow me."

Tattering like a leaf, retching, she stood up and followed in his footsteps.

"Madanach is the one in charge here. I am his personal bodyguard. Number two, but for you, it only means there are two ones. So, you just shut your mouth and obey me, got it?"

She nodded once more. What else could she do? The orc towered over her by a good arm's length and he was built like a bull. Better not enrage him.

They wandered through narrow tunnels which reminded her strongly of a long string of bowels. She had never been keen on surgery, much to her professors' dismay. Even if it was just a lousy comparison, it still gave her nausea. The stale air and the stinky green beast ahead did not make things any better.

After an impossibly long time, they finally arrived at a dead end. On its side, they found a kind of misgrowth where light was shining bright.

"It's here."

She was about to get in but the orc grabbed her by the sleeve.

"Remember who you'll be talking to, meat. Madanach can dispose of your life at will."

As if she needed a reminder. How many times had he threatened her already? Did he think she was retarded? Maybe her body was weak, especially compared to his, but her mind had always been one of her strongest assets. This was really infuriating.

"I got it the first time." she let out.

He seized her by her collar.

"Picking a fight, are we?"

"Borkul!" Thundered a raspy voice, the orc let her go immediately.

"Come in my dear." said the voice more calmly.

She needed no further encouragement.

The nook in the tunnel sheltered a small cell, which cozy comfort strongly contrasted from the tunnels decay.

Sitting by a table, a man of many winters was staring at her, his lips curved in half a smile. Despite his wrecked clothes, he oozed presence and raw charisma. Madanach, the King in Rags. A fitting title.

"Please, take a seat."

It took her seconds to react.

"My dear friend Borkul did not use force on you, I hope?"

"Huh… No."

"Good. He sometimes proves a bit rough. This is also the reason why I hire him."

Then, as she sat

"It's not as comfortable as what you are used to, but let's not complain. It's not that bad, you see, especially for a place like this."

She didn't know what to say. Maybe no words were required of her. The man seemed to know her somehow.

"Yes, I know who you are." he said, as if he had read her mind." Believe it or not, I knew you would be thrown in here."

"Wh- How?"

"When you know Silver Bloods as well as I do, you come to realize it can only end in two ways."

"Which are?"

"Submission or death."

That reaped the words off her.

"Or, in your case, submission, and then death. Because, make no mistake, your sunny days are over. You'll be rotting for the rest of your life down here, in Cidhna."

Cidhna! She had hoped against reason she had not been thrown in this horrible prison. Since her arrival in Markarth, three months prior, she had only heard dreadful stories about the place. Rumours about murders, crippling diseases, drugs and violence, but every tale was sentenced by the same statement: no one escapes the Cidhna mine.

Elinor ground her teeth. So, her husband had denied her. Faced with those false accusations, he had just turned his cloak. He had let her name be soiled.

Seeing her forlorn face, Madanach offered her a drink. Then he said:

"Why don't you ask me how I know you?"

She looked at him like a hangdog.

"Does it really matter?"

"Elinor, dearest, don't take it badly, but I thought of you as a more worthy fighter."

"I am, when hope remains. Yet there is none left, you said it yourself."

"Mmh… Well, let's say I just wanted you to mark my words."

She looked at him, at loss. Was he trying to manipulate her? Was it even that damn important? She nonetheless decided to give in.

"How do you know me then?"

The old man let out a satisfied sigh. Obviously, everything was going according to his plan.

"We happen to share mutual connections, you and I. High ranking ones, I daresay."

"How high?"

"As high as this prison owners."

"You mean…"

"Yes. I have a little arrangement with our good old Thonar Silver Blood."

He ensconced himself deep in his chair and gazed at her with a little smirk.

"Much the same way you had an arrangement with his brother Thongvor," he said, assessing his knowledge.

"It was a marriage of convenience. I was coaxed into it."

"The same way I had to serve Thonar."

"Explain yourself."

"I had Markarth. My men and I drove the Nords out. We had won, or so we thought. Retribution was swift. I was captured, quickly tried, and sentenced to death. But my execution never came. Thonar Silver-Blood stopped it. He wanted the Forsworn at his call, that I would point their rage at his enemies and spare his allies."

The allusion did not pass her by.

"You're still in touch with your men outside."

"Exactly."

"Could you escape?"

She voiced it as a question, but it was more of a statement actually.

"I could, indeed."

"Why don't you then?"

"That was my intent. Until I heard of you. Your coming somewhat changed my plans."

"Why? What do you want from me?"

"Do not alarm yourself. I mean no harm to you. It's the Silver Bloods I want to purge the world from."

"I won't serve your vengeance."

"Are you sure of this?"

Only for a heartbeat, she hesitated. But if she formed an alliance with this old foe, she could say good bye to any conciliation with her husband. In spite of his sudden change of attitude, Thongvor remained her best hope.

"I'm certain of it."

"So be it. In that case, our conversation is over."

Madanach dismissed her with an uncaring flip of his hand. Before she left, he added:

"Since you'll have plenty of time, may I suggest that you speak a little with Braig? The poor guy is in dire need of company."

No sooner had she stepped out of Madanach's cell that Borkul enormous hand grabbed her. She once more found herself dragged in the tunnels.

They wandered back to the main gallery. There, he threw her toward another prisoner.

"Come on, meat. Time to talk." he laughed.

She flew rather than walked toward her auditory recipient. The man, a Breton with warpaints on his cheeks, crossed his arms by way of welcome. He squared his shoulders and waited, unmoved, a gloomy look spread across his worn out features.

She smoothed down her tunic – as mechanical a gesture as futile, but it restored some of her shattered composure.

"Hi" she began.

The Breton did not even blink.

"Madanach has asked me to speak with you."

Not the best of introductions, but well… she was way past courtesies.

"Yeah? So kind of you. Now, I'm curious, what could we possibly talk about, hum?"

"Well… I don't know. Why are you here?"

She almost regretted her question as his expression went from sinister to macabre. But he bore her no ill-will.

Braig told her his story. Someone had caught him speaking to Madanach, and the guards had kicked him into the mine. His daughter Aethra had gone to the jarl, begging his mercy with her tears and her plea. But the man was cruel. He had her decapitated, under her father's very eyes, before sending the poor man back to his prison.

"My daughter would have turned twenty three on Frostfall of this year." he said with a mournful sigh.

Her age too, however misplaced guilt kept her from disclosing such information.

Silence settled between them. She felt distraught all of sudden. Borkul was nowhere in sight. Since her arrival, there had been someone to order her around; she'd had no time to think.

But Braig proved himself kind and helping. Like the caring father he'd been once, he took her under his wing. Maybe she did remind him of his lost daughter. That balm on her heart, although welcomed, did little to soothe the sting of her wounds though.

* * *

.

She spent the next days cursing herself.

On the eighth day, she was already exhausted. Her noble ascendance had preserved her from hardships. Never had she been used to work. The tender flesh of her hands now bled continuously. And still no sign of her husband. Doubt began to creep on her.

Yet, despite his natural coldness, Thongvor had always shown her but affection. He had lavished her with so many silks and jewels, so much furniture and trinkets that he could have easily redecorated Stonekeep from ground to ceiling.

On the fifteenth day, however, she had to admit her being wrong. Her husband was a true Nord. And a true Nord would not buy outrageously expensive cosmetics to his wife only to let her catch scars in the bottom of a mine. Especially if said true Nord was a Silver Blood. Silver Blood always sought profit.

Her pride now in pieces, her fragile body already half broken by the sheer amount of physical effort requested of her, she could measure up the extent of the disaster. And all for what? To help a stranger and his unborn child? Or, rather, to gain popularity amongst Silver Bloods…

How servile she had been, crawling at her masters' feet, begging for their caresses. How vain too, ever thankful for any piece of congratulation they deigned to throw at her. She was a sucker for compliments. That she knew. But she had thrown her heart into this marriage, in all sincerity, welcoming her newly acquired family as part of her identity, only to find herself betrayed at first occasion.

Well done indeed.

On the sixteenth day, she called for another interview with Madanach. His guard dog met her with a mocking laugh.

"You want to talk to the King in Rags? Fine. But first you got to pay the toll. How about you get me a shiv? Not that I need one, but it's nice to have in case I need to do some "shaving." Ha ha!"

Elinor did not answer the unfortunate pun. Instead, she glared at him, thus engaging into a staring contest. The orc was the first to look away.

"Alright, you win. But don't try anything stupid. Madanach is more cunning that you know."

She by-passed the thick bodyguard then walked down the tunnels to meet with the King in Rags once more.

"I suppose you've talked to Braig?" he greeted her.

"I did."

"Imagine hearing a story like that, over and over. Each time a different family. Each time a different injustice. Your meddling above ground reminded me of how removed I've been from the struggle. My men and I should be in the hills, fighting."

Gods, the man loved the sound of his own voice. She pulled him back to the matter at hand.

"Are you going to escape?"

"Me? Yes. You… It depends."

"On what?"

"On you."

"Fair enough. What are your terms?"

"Aah, you're one of us now, you see? A slave. The boot of the Nord stepping on your throat."

"Say what you want, and be done with it."

"Yes, but I need a show of loyalty from you. I don't need a shiv in the back while we break out."

That shiv again? She rolled her eyes.

Ever growing requests from ever growingly irritating men. She had known such at court. Solicitors had revolved around her since she was a child. Their haggling had only ever awarded them painful, electric refusals. But Madanach seemed to value her life – an unexpected but highly valuable fact that kept her from exploding. But the way she matched his plan was too obscure for her to make anything out of it. She had no choice but to fall in.

"What do you want me to do?"

"Have you met Grisvar the Unlucky? He's rightly named, and he's also a thief and a snitch. He's outlived his minor usefulness. Take care of him, and then we can leave Cidhna Mine for good."

"But that's… murder!" she raged.

Madanach did not even bat an eyelid.

"Either you kill that coward, or you stay here for the rest of your miserable life. Have I made myself clear?"

Elinor swallowed hard. Speaking of ever growing requests… that one took the cake. Her mind reeled for an alternative.

"I'm innocent, she began, Thongvor…"

"…has already launched an annulment procedure. On the grounds of treason, murder and repeated offense."

He allowed himself a wry smile. Then he mercilessly hammered it down:

"Consider yourself unwed. You are but a waste for him now. A mere nuisance."

She'd swear he'd slapped her. Tears swelled in her eyes.

Part of her wanted to scream, to throw a tantrum like a child, in the hopes that the King in Rags would pat her hand gently, taking pity on her, and say "Hey, that was just a joke, no need to worry".

But another part poured out malicious words into her ear: "Your husband has always been distant. He never allowed you in. Did he come and claim you? No, he let you rot in his filthy mine. He never loved you. Or else, why would you need to bargain your life with such a pernicious old man?"

The last point got the better of her. She swallowed her pride back and met the steady gaze of her locutor.

"Alright, what were you saying about Grisvar?"

.

After her conversation with Madanach, she decided to sleep on it. As she closed her eyes, she couldn't help but think of her cousin, Mel. It was a favourite strategy of her. Every time, she would argue that the subconscious is so strong it can find solutions all by itself. That all it needs is just a little slack.

Mel, the apprentice. Who wanted to join the priest's ranks in the Temple of Anticlere. If only she had chosen to stay in Menevia… they would be serving together now. Well, perhaps. Or maybe that was just wishful thinking. She certainly revered Mara but had always felt but contempt for the dull life her followers led.

Morning found her back on tracks but not entirely at peace with her decision. Her mind had worked out a simple but effective plan she implemented at noon.

It was common knowledge that drugs ran the tunnels. Dealers fought over its control with utmost violence. The most prosperous of the lot was a Reachman called Duach. She decided to pay him a visit.

There, she used her unusual beauty to fish what she needed out of him. She barely had to open her mouth for the man to take the bait. When he hastily began his haggling for her favours, she knew he was hooked. Negotiations were neat and swift. Hurried by his urgent need, he feverishly handed the three bottles of skooma he hid in his safe. Then he waited for his reward, a desperate look plastered on his unremarkable face.

But he never tasted it.

She was a daughter of Kings – real ones, not rambling old men in rags. She could trace her lineage back to the Merethic Era, when elves wandered the world unhindered, before the rise of men. She was a true womanmer, the purest form of the ancient Bretons, a mythic creature all of itself. She had the eyes to prove it. Pupils of liquid gold, as sparkling as any Altmer's. And the gods had bestowed upon her the power to match.

With a single snap of her fingers, she sent the dealer right into dreamland. The Reachman fell with a muffled noise. She let him snore for all he was worth and turned her attention to her true target: Grisvar.

She found him already drowsy from drug consumption.

Usually, one had to inhale vapours of Skooma. But she held it from Duach that it could also be ingested.

She opened the poor wretch's mouth and, slowly, she poured the content of the hijacked bottles down his throat. One. Two. Three. The man's lips brimmed over with white foam. His body jerked a little. Then he was gone.

She could have used another way. Namely, a good old spark. But somehow, it hurt her sense of ethics to kill the man in such a brutal way. She was glad she'd at least been able to spare him any useless suffering; there he laid, smiling his ecstatic smile. A sweet death, infused by the very poison he'd taken with so much need.

It did nothing to prevent the deed from weighing down her conscience though. She could feel the guilt invade her, threatening to drown out her sanity.

She shook herself. By now, Madanach and his Forsworn would be ready to flee.

.

She was not to keep a clear memory of what happened thereafter. The king in Rags ordering his men around, the fight, even Thonar's death, everything blurred and melted, leaving her confused and bewildered.

She did not remember falling asleep, yet she rose to the sound of Borkul's joyful voice. The orc was stirring in the morning chill.

'Where are we?" she asked him.

She expected him to rebuke her, but he answered willingly.

"We're in Druanach's Redoubt, our new headquarters!"

He looked radiant. A highly unlikely state for such a fanatic butcher.

"Ah, you're awake." an all too familiar voice rang from behind.

She turned around to see Madanach smile at her wearily.

"You passed out after we took care of Thonar. You still cling to your past, it seems."

"I'm not like you. I can't get rid of people the way I'd get rid of the dirt on my shoes."

"Yet you did it. For me."

For him? What was he thinking? No. No way.

"I didn't do it for you, but for me! To get my freedom back!" she yelled.

"And what of his freedom?"

That was a low blow. She cast him a venomous glare. But he had triggered a sensitive, painful string. And deliberately so. She tried to fend off the attack.

"I had no choice."

"There is always a choice."

Her guilt rose dramatically. He tried to make her choke on it, for sure. Nasty old prick! She lost it.

"Liar! You forced me! It's all your fault!

She punched the ground and cried and howled her pain. She was giving a pitiful show, tears and dust coating her cheeks, nose flowing with snot, but she couldn't care less.

"You are a monster!" she spat.

Madanach looked at her in dismay.

"Come now, Elinor. Don't be so foolish." he said in a soft voice. "Thonar had you thrown in his mine but you weren't the first, nor the last. As for Thongvor…"

"Do not speak of him. Ever!"

Even safely removed from his prison, she could not yet withstand any thought of him.

"Very well then. But you'll have to open your eyes, sooner or later. The world is not in black and white. You cannot go on living only your fantasies. Grow up!"

Madanach, the Voice of Reason Itself. The old fool sat on a raw quarry stone like it was the finest throne on Nirn, and was looking down on her from his haughty nose, lecturing her like a dignified chairman. Her magicka swelled with her anger. She felt the tickling sensation gather in her hands. Her fingers flexed on their own volition, ready to unload the charge. But she managed to keep her fury in check. He could rave and ramble. She was no murderer.

She chose to retreat behind a wall of silence.

He must have sensed her hostility as he said:

"Like I said before, I mean you no harm. Quite the contrary, in fact... You and I would make such a perfect team. Join me."

She stubbornly kept her mouth shut. She saw him inhale deeply before revealing his plans.

"Join me and I'll grant you your every wish: land, power, titles. I'll crown you my Queen and see you sit on the Wayrest Throne. Together, we will restore the ancient ways. We will rule over our people."

His passionate tirade missed his target. He had meant to exalt her, to flatter her with his grandiose speech of royalty. But although she liked having her little ego stroked, she didn't fancy her married once more, especially to this senile beggar.

She smiled her sweetest smile. Relief flooded his face. He thought he had won her over. Perfect. It would make it easier for her to slip away from his grip.

* * *

.

Many thanks to my beta reader for her corrections.

Original game dialogs are peppered here and there. Sources : UESP and elderscrolls wikia


	2. The Fall - Helgen

"First Emissary?"

"Yes?"

"The mission was a success."

"Very well."

The ruddy-faced legate waddled awkwardly.

"Anything else?"

"Actually… yes. We captured three more people."

First Emissary Elenwen suppressed her rising anger and calmly asked for more details.

"Who are they?"

The legate fumbled in his pocket for his note.

"Lokir, of Rorikstead. Isabel of Bravil. And Elinor, of Menevia, the fugitive from Markarth."

That made her notice.

Elinor, the little brat.

One month earlier, one of her spies had intercepted letters coming and going from Markarth to Menevia. The cryptic texts had kept them on their toes until their agents finally cracked the code. There, they had learned about the fate of Wayrest last heiress, or rather now Thongvor's pretty bride. Of course, this alliance posed a threat the Thalmor couldn't just ignore. Silver Bloods were notable Stormcloak supporters while Woodbornes had vied for the Breton throne for generations.

She'd been about to send Ondolemar scoop her up, when the brainless bird had suddenly vanished from her cage.

Luckily, her husband had had a flash of genius: he'd put a bounty on his own wife's head! The Legion had gladly tracked her down so she'd lay now tied and secured. Best of all, the Thalmor didn't even have to lift a finger. Irony is a kingly treat indeed.

"Send them all to the block." she said in a dispassionate voice.

"My lady, this goes against…" the legate began, but she interrupted his nonsense.

"They were with Ulfric, yes?"

"Well…"

"Well what?" she snapped.

The man shriveled up.

"They were dwelling in the same place when we captured them." he managed.

"Therefore they all belong to the Stormcloaks."

The imperial gaped at her. She addressed him her iciest smile.

"Any objection, legate?"

Said legate gave her a submissive look.

"No ma'am."

"What are you waiting for then?"

His shoulders sagged. He left.

Damn idiot. Individuals of his like filled the Legion. Clad in their polished armours, they shone only with stupidity. Each passing day rendered her task more and more ungrateful.

.

She directly went from her camp to the execution place in Helgen. There, she met with Tullius, the old General, flanked by two soldiers.

"Emissary Elenwen." he said from atop his gelding.

First Emissary, old fart. She nonetheless returned his salute.

"General." she greeted between her teeth.

"I've heard we captured three civilians." he said straight off.

"Undercover agents, no doubt."

"With no uniforms and no weapons?"

"Hence the term : undercover."

Tullius cast her a dubious look. He was not buying her version.

"And the Breton?"

"What Breton?"

"Elinor, of Menevia. The Silver Blood's bride."

"Well, what of her?"

"Shouldn't we ride her back to her husband?"

"Nonsense. He'll send his thanks to us later."

"Silver Bloods don't appreciate strangers mingling with their business."

"General, she escaped from Cidhna."

She put an emphasis on the last word.

"Cidhna, you understand?" she said slowly, as if he was feebleminded.

That shut the old man up. He however hadn't given up on his needling her.

"That's so kind of you to have come in person." he snorted.

"Ulfric already slipped away twice from your grip. I personally want to make sure his fate will be sealed this time."

The General froze on his horse.

"As you can see," he said in a stiff voice, "we secured the area by every possible means."

Before them, the Legion was deployed in an impressive show of force and efficiency. Elenwen found herself deeply satisfied.

"Such a wonderful sight." she marvelled.

"I agree."

Tullius' pride didn't go unnoticed. They hated each other with a passion, but shared a few common tastes nonetheless.

"Alright, let's move on." she ordered.

"Prisoners!" bellowed a soldier. "Move forward!"

The guards pushed the Stormcloaks out of their carts. They were deftly positioned in neat rows.

Elenwen allowed herself a small smile when she saw Ulfric stand before her, as straight as justice itself, in spite of his being gagged and shackled. Even on the verge of death, the man bragged and put on his martyr cloak. But she, Elenwen, knew fully well what lied beneath his cocky demeanour. She knew who he is really was.

Tullius was starting his prosecution, filling the air with his monotonous voice.

She endured with patience. Today, nothing could spoil her victory. On this very day, had fallen Ulfric, jarl of Windhelm, traitor and kingslayer, and Elinor Woodborne, lastborn of an infamously treacherous litter.

Tullius had finished his boring speech by now. The festivities could begin.

"Prisoners! Move forward when you hear me sayin' your name." a female officer ordered.

Elenwen looked at the long line of captives. A tedious morning if there ever was.

"Lokir, of Rorikstead."

Said Lokir tried to flee. He was immediately pierced by a large amount of arrows.

"Anyone else?" The imperial officer asked in a sarcastic tone.

No one replied.

"Madam, this one is not on the list." a fellow soldier suddenly blurted out. "What do we do?"

"Stranger! Come here. Who are you?"

Elenwen cast an uncaring glance at the prisoner. A skinny female. Imperial. Unremarkable on all aspects. She made a sign for the officer to go on.

Isabel of Bravil was charged and sentenced to death in one swift movement.

The executioner was about to slice her head short when a deafening sound reverberated on the courtyard walls.

"What is it?"

"Up there! A… a dragon!"

She already had summoned a fireball in her palms to punish the fools, then she saw it.

Two impossibly wide wings, white-hot and black at the same time, like volcano spread slags, were hovering over their heads.

"Resume the execution!" she ordered. No one noticed. All eyes were fixed on the Beast.

The monster landed on the nearest tower and unleashed chaos.

She never knew if it was more from the shockwave or its sound, but she fell. A painful tinnitus took hold of her ear while she stood up awkwardly, searching for her preys. She saw them taking refuge in another tower, a few yards away.

She gave chase.

But the dragon was barring the way. She cast an invisibility spell on herself, and disappeared from her Beast's sight.

She made slow progress. The ancient creature was throwing stones with its claws, its wings sweeping the roofs, making the tiles fly, its mouth spraying fire on humans, mers, and beastfolks alike.

When she finally set foot in the tower, Ulfric and Elinor had vanished. She angrily eyed them run in the opposite direction, towards the main barracks.

They were already out of spell reach. She had no choice but to follow them. But her lack of running skills proved too much of a handicap. She could only see them go in before the dragon, in a large sweep of its wing, destroyed the entrance.

Her rage took over. She released it on the remaining soldiers in the courtyard. The lightning bounced thrice; two men fell dead on the ground. She coldly stared at them. Impotent dogs.

She once more rendered herself invisible, and then left.


End file.
